No Safe Place(Detective Lottie Parker #4)(39)

‘What? After our new acting superintendent told you to report to him first?’

‘Starting as I mean to go on,’ Lottie said, and kicked the door closed.



* * *



Jane Dore was petite and precise. In every way. She nodded as Lottie entered her sterile place of work, aptly called the Dead House.

‘Been a few months since you were last here,’ she said, pulling down her face mask.

‘Thank God, it’s been quiet,’ Lottie said. ‘I was beginning to think all the murderous bastards had hightailed it off to the Costa del Sol.’

‘Not quite all of them.’

‘What have you found?’

‘I’ve completed the prelims. Elizabeth Byrne was a healthy twenty-five-year-old female. I’d say she looked after her body. Probably did a lot of running, based on her muscle tissue.’

‘Maybe that’s how she got away from her killer.’

‘You’re assuming she was murdered?’

‘Wasn’t she?’

‘You’ll need forensic evidence to prove it. I can only tell you about the condition of the body and the evidence collected. If you’ll allow me?’

‘Go ahead.’ Lottie perched herself on a high stool, surrounded by white tiles and stainless-steel benches and tables. She couldn’t see any bodies. Good.

‘She suffered from chronic psoriasis. Her scalp, knees and elbows were badly affected. So badly, in fact, that if she was transported by car, there will be flakes of skin everywhere. Trace evidence.’

Lottie noted this in her notebook. If they ever found a car to check.

Jane continued. ‘She had cuts to her right elbow and to the soles of both feet consistent with running barefoot. The hallux on her left foot was fractured – that’s her big toe. Also her left leg.’

‘Tibia open shaft fracture,’ Lottie said.

Jane raised an eyebrow.

‘McGlynn told me. Most of this is consistent with what I already know.’

‘Her knuckles were bitten by her own teeth, probably from the pain when she suffered the fracture.’

‘How did she die?’ Lottie was impatient to get this classified as murder.

‘To put it bluntly, she was buried alive.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Her assailant grabbed her round the throat from behind with his arm. No fingerprints, but we got some fibres. She fell or was pushed into the grave, and as she lay there, clay either fell down or was thrown in on top of her, smothering her. I can give you the technical details if you like.’

‘No, that’s fine. So it was murder?’

‘If I’m being honest, I don’t think that amount of clay could have fallen in of its own accord. She died from asphyxiation caused by the clay.’

‘McGlynn said there was evidence of maggots.’

‘She had an open bleeding wound, so that would be normal, seeing as she was six feet below ground.’

‘Time of death?’

‘Going by the cold weather, and her lividity, I would estimate she was dead thirty-two to thirty-six hours maximum when you found her.’

‘So it’s possible she was murdered between three and four on Tuesday morning?’

‘I’d agree with that.’

‘Any of the killer’s trace evidence show up on the body?’

‘He wore gloves. As I said, a few fibres on her neck from his coat. It’s possible she was drugged. I’ve sent samples off for toxicology. You will know as soon as I do.’

‘Sexual assault?’

‘No evidence of any recent sexual activity.’

‘Thanks, Jane.’

‘One other thing,’ the pathologist said.

Lottie waited.

‘This girl suffered greatly. Her cheeks, despite the clay, were salty. She’d been crying. Find him, Lottie, before he takes someone else.’





Thirty-Two





The mornings were the longest. When Saoirse was in school. Not for the first time, Keelan O’Donnell wished she had a job. But Cillian said he wanted her at home. He was making enough money; why would she need to work when he was providing for her? She supposed he was right with regards to the money aspect, but she needed to see other human beings during the day. He’d put a stop to her art classes, told her she couldn’t paint even when the other women in the group thought her work was good. Then she’d joined a choir in the Arts Centre. Mornings for two hours. He stopped that too. Crows can’t sing, he’d said.

Twiddling her phone in her hand, she toyed with the idea of ringing Finn’s wife, Sara. Good God, she thought. That confirmed just how lonely she was. She put her phone away. Things weren’t that bad. Not yet.

She picked up her coat. She’d see if Donal was coping any better. Glancing in the hall mirror, she checked that the make-up concealed the yellow bruise taking shape on her cheek. Cillian really hadn’t been himself since his mother’s death.

Why was she always making excuses for him? She had no answer to her own question.

As she lashed on an extra layer of foundation, just to be safe, she caught sight of the little pink umbrella hanging on the hall stand. As long as Cillian kept his anger directed at her, Saoirse should be safe. But the second he stepped over that line, Keelan was taking her daughter, and he would never find them. Ever.